


My Dearest Friend

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Some shipping if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fluffy, largely non-shippy drabbles from a few requests I took over on my <a href="sparxwrites.tumblr.com">fic blog</a> over on tumblr.</p><p>Alternate title: "Holy shit, Sparx is writing fluff?!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous asked:** Witch!Lying's mental health is going down the drain (possibly bc of Kyofushin) and they go to Kirin for comfort maybe? If you want.

“I’m staying here tonight,” announces Lying, stepping from the shadows that crowd the corners of Kirin’s thaumcraft basement. They pause for a moment to orient themself after the trip. Kirin’s wards around his house, though far more easily penetrable than Kirin would probably like, always leave a stinging feeling in their extremities. “I thought you might like to know, even if you have no choice in the matter.”

Shaking the last of the pins and needles out, Lying stalks across to where Kirin’s sat at a research table in the opposite corner. They pass the infusion altar on the way, snagging the soft azure and navy fabric of Kirin’s outer robe, discarded across an empty pedestal, and draping it easily around their shoulders as they go. It hasn’t retained any of Kirin’s body heat, much to their disappointment, but the heavy fabric promises to warm them up, and smells comfortingly of witchery herbs and the familiar ozone-tang of slow-building storms.

“Okay,” says Kirin, absently, without so much as a flinch. He’s far too used to this behaviour to be remotely put out by a small witch invading his house, stealing his clothing, and demanding sanctuary for the night. Finishing the last few lines of his notes, he blows on the ink to dry it, and only then looks up. “Any particular reason for abandoning the well?”

The well-witch is loathe to abandon their well for any significant period of time, he knows, so whatever’s coaxed them out of it - or _driven_  them out of it, as the case may be - must be important. Not that Kirin expects Lying to actually _tell_  him, of course. Lying considers themself far above such mortal follies as straightforward answers.

Sure enough, Lying sniffs, somehow managing to make the sound _haughty_ , as if answering the question is below them. “No reason,” they say, primly, tugging Kirin’s robe a little more firmly around them.  “I just… thought you might appreciate the pleasure of my company, is all.”

On closer inspection, though, they’re shivering, somehow even paler than usual, with deep bags under their eyes. Kirin frowns, resisting the urge to reach out and catch their wrist to try and steady the tremor in their hands. Their usually immaculate nail polish is chipped, their hair is in disarray, and their eyeliner is absent altogether.

It’s as close to a cry for help as Lying’s ever likely to get.

“Okay,” says Kirin again, a little more gently this time, closing his book of research notes once he’s sure the ink won’t smudge. “I was just finishing up here, anyway.” Standing up, he stretches, rolls his shoulders and arches his back until something clicks, and rumbles quiet satisfaction deep in his chest. “Tea?” he asks, crouching ever so slightly and dipping one shoulder down towards Lying by way of invitation.

“ _Tea_ ,” says Lying, gratitude slipping into their voice even as they scramble up to perch atop Kirin’s shoulders, hands curling tight around his horns. His robe slips off their shoulder, hangs down past their legs, but they don’t seem to notice as they lean against the back of his head, lean into the _warmth_  of him.

Like this, the smell of brewing storms is even stronger, laced with electricity and fresh and _clean_ , so different from the stale, stagnant water of the well, its endless creeping mold, and the face staring back at them from mirrors that _isn’t theirs_ … Shaking their head a little, they curl their fingers just a little tighter around Kirin’s antlers, and exhale slowly. “Tea would be _lovely_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous asked:** Parv getting bullied for wearing dresses, is comforted by Strife

“Ridge is an _asshole_ ,” snaps Parvis, hurt and bitter, scrubbing at his eyes. He’s only smudging his mascara - already smeared in streaks down his cheeks from his angry tears - even further, but he doesn’t seem to care. “A complete and utter _bastard_ , a real- a real asshole.”

 _Surprise surprise_ , Strife thinks but doesn’t say, because sarcasm and I-told-you-so’s aren’t going to help anyone right now. Instead, he hums quiet agreement, and pulls the pan of milk he’s been heating off the hob. There’s only one cup in front of him, several teaspoons of hot chocolate in the bottom of it, and he listens to Parvis’ continued rant as he tips the milk in and stirs.

“Can’t believe he’d just-” Parvis is saying, kicking off his sandals and tucking his bare feet up onto the sofa. His dress puddles around his thighs, a pale emerald green that matches suspiciously closely to the exact shade of Strife’s freckles. It’s a short, casual thing, summery, overlaid with a floral lace netting in the same shade. “So _rude_ \- I didn’t even _ask_  him- not like it’s his body, or his clothes, or-! He’s got _no right-_ none at all- didn’t even- rude- I can’t-”

“He’s an asshole,” agrees Strife, cutting through Parvis’ words that are increasingly turning into fractured, frustrated sobs, interspersed with the occasional hiccup. “I know. I _agree_.”

Settling down on the sofa, he doesn’t even blink when Parvis immediately tucks up against his side, pressing a tear-stained face against his shoulder - just hums again, softly, and curls an arm around Parvis’ shoulder. “Hot chocolate for you, when you want it,” he says, after a moment, rubbing Parvis’ upper arm gently, the callouses of his palms catching against smooth, bare skin.

“You’re the best,” mumbles Parvis, a little damply, the words muffled by the fabric of Strife’s shirt. He sniffs, swallows, and then exhales, a rush of warm air against Strife’s neck. “The _best_ , Will.  _Way_  better than Ridge.”

Laughing a little, Strife relinquishes the warm mug in his grip to Parvis’ questing fingers when they wrap around it, despite the fact he’s yet to look up from Strife’s shoulder. “I mean, that’s hardly setting a high bar,” he says, smiling a little when his words draw a damp snort from Parvis.

“…Although,” he adds, tentatively, as Parvis finally uncurls to take a sip of the hot chocolate, rubbing at his eyes yet again - now huge and black, the smudged mascara giving him rather spectacular panda eyes. “I- I thought you looked- very nice, today. That colour really… really suits you, y’know?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous asked:** Xephos and Honeydew comforting Nano who's home alone after Lalna's gone on a journey that will take him months (maybe more) to complete?

“Don’t worry, friend,” says Xephos, as he potters around Pandalabs’ kitchen, opening cupboards and draws and occasionally _ooh_ -ing to himself at what he finds, pulling various ingredients out seemingly at random and setting them on the worksurface. “He’ll be back before you know it. Three months will _fly_  by if you keep busy - and Honeydew and I will visit every week, of course. Lomadia would, too, and you _know_  how excited Kirin gets whenever anyone invites him somewhere, and that Strife fellow seems quite sweet on you-”

“Sweet on me!” splutters Nano, distracted from her brooding by sheer horror - not at the possibility of Strife liking her, per se, but at the fact that Xephos still uses the painfully archaic phrase _sweet on someone_. “I’ll- I’ll have you know that mine and Strife’s relationship is _strictly_  business, thank you very much.”

Honeydew laughs at the bright pink of her cheeks from his place at the recently-installed, lovingly crafted breakfast bar. There’s been a lot of time for home improvements in the few weeks since Lalna left, and no one to stop her or call the decorating _a waste of time_  in his absence. “Nothing wrong with mixing business and pleasure, young lady,” he says, with a wink, and Nano scowls.

“Oh, I see how it is,” she says, indignantly, as Xephos pulls a chopping board and a large saucepan out of a cupboard with a noise of faint triumph. “You two only came over here to wind me up and eat all my food.”

“Guilty as charged,” agrees Honeydew, cheerfully, propping his chin up with one palm. “Though… we were a bit worried about you, y’know. Out here all alone, with Lalna gone. You’re a little out of the way.”

The scowl slips off Nano’s face, the pink fading from her cheeks, and she sighs. “I can take care of myself, you know,” she says, touching one hand to the sword at her hip - thinking of the rocket launcher propped up by the doorway, of the atomic disassembler Strife had gifted her with sitting in her mining backpack - but there’s no offence in her words. “I’m not _completely_ useless, thank you very much. No matter _what_  Lalna likes to say.”

“That’s not what Dew meant, and you know it,” says Xephos, gently, and Honeydew nods emphatically in agreement. “And, whatever Lalna says, he thinks very highly of you. You know  _that_ , too. He wouldn’t have left you alone here otherwise.”

Sagging slightly, Nano nods, hopping up onto one of the stools next to Honeydew. Sat down like this, she’s barely an inch taller than him. “…I wish he hadn’t,” she says, eventually, voice soft. “Left me here, I mean. It doesn’t feel _right_ without him.”

“He’ll be back before you know it,” says Honeydew, echoing Xephos’ words, reaching out to place a hand over hers and lacing their fingers together. “Don’t you worry. The time’ll fly by.” Squeezing her hand, he grins at her, and then grins wider when she smiles back.

Xephos nods encouragingly. “There’s enough of us around you’re not going to get lonely, Nano,” he says, already dicing carrots and potatoes with easy, practised movements. “All you have to do is call, and _someone_  will be around. We’ll all look out for you until Lalna gets back.” 

He pauses, eyes gleaming. “Plus, an empty house means you’ve got some space to court Strife, hmm? Or…” His lips twist with something like distaste. “Or those three  _ruffians_ to the East, who seem to have taken an interest in you, but personally I wouldn’t touch them with a _barge pole_ -”

“Oh. My. _God,”_ Nano groans, throwing her hands up in the air and trying to resist the urge to hit her forehead repeatedly against the shiny marble of her brand new breakfast bar. “You two are the _worst,_ and I am never, _ever_  inviting you round for dinner again. Ever.”

Despite everything, though, she realises that she’s properly, truly smiling for the first time since Lalna left. Xephos and Honeydew are right - just because he’s gone, doesn’t mean all her other friends have. She’ll manage just fine for three months, one way or another.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous asked:** Parv and Strife getting lost in a blizzard. They find shelter but one of them (I'm not sure who, so you can pick, maybe Strife *shrug*) is still rather afraid, and the other comforts them until the storm passes? :)

“We don’t have these, on my planet,” says Strife, shivering a little and tucking his hands more firmly into his armpits. The abandoned - or, at least, they hope it’s abandoned - witch’s hut they’ve holed up in is wooden, somewhat decript, and although a damn sight better than being outside, really not all that good as a shelter.

“Huh?” asks Parvis, only half-listening, busy fiddling with his blood orb as he tries to figure out how to make a fire in the bottom of a cauldron with blood magic and a handful of sticks. In only his thin t-shirt, he’s in even worse shape than Strife is, goosebumps running up and down his arms and his lips turning an odd blue-purple.

Idly, he thinks of Martyn, the way he’d turned blue and white and icy during the winter. With all the snow in his hair, they probably look like they could be siblings right now.

Gritting his teeth against the way his jaw’s starting to tremble, Strife blows out a breath through his nose, watches it crystallise in the air. “This- this white _bullshit_ ,” he mutters, eyes darting to the window where the snow’s whipping through the air with terrifying speed, thick enough that white is all he can see. The wind howls unnaturally where it slips through cracks in the wood and tears through the nearby trees. “Snow. Snowstorms. Whatever. We don’t- we don’t have them.”

The fire finally catches with a crackle and a roar, and Parvis slumps to the floor, pressing his hands to the rapidly warming metal. “Oh thank _fuck_ ,” he mumbles, only pulling away when his palms threaten to burn, tucking himself as close as he can to the cauldron without burning himself. “Stupid weather, try to take Parvy-Parv down… takes more than a bit of snow to beat _me_ … Hah! Parvy wins.”

Wind screams around the cabin, tugging the door open and slamming it shut again, nearly putting the fire out - and Strife jumps with a thud and a high, thin noise he unsuccessfully tries to turn into a cough.

Parvis turns to look at him, a little more attentive now his limbs no longer feel numb and in danger of falling off. He notices what he didn’t see before, the whites of Strife’s eyes and the way he’s shaking on top of the shivers, the white-knuckle grip he has on the atomic disassembler as if he’s ready to go out there and try to _fight_  the storm by himself. “Strifey,” he teases, grin widening. “Are you _afraid_?”

“No!” snaps Strife, immediately, too-fast and defensive and irritable, and Parvis sighs. 

Instead of arguing, he reaches over to grab Strife’s wrist, wincing at the cold of his skin, and tugs him closer to the fire. “Stop wasting the fire,” he says, shuffling over until they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder and he can feel Strife’s fine tremors as if they were his own. “I worked hard for this, and you’re being all ungrateful sitting over in the corner.”

“Parvis…” starts Strife - only to jump again, grabbing at Parvis’ knee, when the storm slams against the windows hard enough to make them rattle. “Shit-!”

“ _Relax_.” Parvis slips his hand into Strife’s while the alien’s distracted, squeezes it gently and grins slyly when Strife squeezes back on autopilot. “It won’t break in - and, if it does, we’ve got enough wood to patch it up. It’s only snow, Strifey.”

Swallowing hard, Strife nods, eyes still on the window. He doesn’t seem to have noticed they’re holding hands, though he’s clinging on as  if for dear life. “Yeah,” he says, slowly, uncertainly. “Yeah, I- that’s true.” He clears his throat, shaking himself and pulling his usual businessman mask back on, turning back to Parvis. “Like I said. We- didn’t have this back home. It’s new.”

Shrugging, Parvis lets himself slump easily against Strife’s side, resting his head on Strife’s shoulder. “Tell me about it,” he demands, impulsively - Strife’s usually so reticent about anything _before_  he came to Minecraftia, so a chance to pry into his personal life is not something Parvis is going to pass up. “About _back home._  What _was_  it like, then?”

Strife hesitates, a flicker of something like nostalgia crossing his face. After a moment though, he relaxes a little, exhales slowly and squeezes Parvis’ hand - the storm, apparently, forgotten for now. “It was… very different from here,” he says, cautiously, picking his words with care. “A lot… we had less climates, less biomes. A lot more water, less land. It was temperate, flat- we had rainstorms, but no snow, and none of this- _thunder_ , and lightning, that you have here.”

Outside, the storm rages, plucking at their little wood hut and screaming fury when it fails to find any purchase, any way to tear it apart. The snow rises to a block high, enough that when the finally leave they’ll be waist-deep. But inside… inside Strife talks, hand in hand with Parvis, the two of them curling steadily closer together as the night wears on and sleep begins to tug at them.

When Strife eventually drift off, his head rests atop Parvis’, the dim, greenish glow of his freckles lighting the cabin along with the glowing embers of the fire. Parvis sleeps, too, warm and safe, and dreams of Strife’s planet - of flat land, and warmth, and endless oceans, and of a hundred strange and glowing creatures that light up the night in a rainbow display.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous asked:** You continue to kill me with angsty Parvill, any possibility for Strife/Rythian with some healing comfort for the poor bab?

“Apprentices,” says Rythian, somewhere around the fourth beer, swaying on his stool and raising the bottle for emphasis, “are… they’re…”

He struggles with the words, waving his beer in a vague gesture that ends with him slopping a large portion of it over himself. When he swears at the new damp patch on his robes, it’s in a language that cracks and hisses in ways no human language should - though his guest next to him doesn’t seem to notice.

Strife grunts in agreement, hunched over his own bottle and drawing patterns in the condensation of Rythian’s kitchen table. The number of empty bottles by his elbow is significantly larger than those next to Rythian. “More trouble than they’re goddamn worth,” he mutters, exhaling a sigh. “Little bastards.”

“Amen,” agrees Rythian, in Minecraftian again - albeit heavily-accented Minecraftian. He raises his now only half full beer in a salute, before taking a drink, slipping the neck of the bottle under his scarf to reach his mouth. “Even worse than- than _scientists_.” He spits the word like a curse, nose wrinkling. The motion of it makes his scarf crease, the dark shadows in the fabric shifting.

“Oi,” says Strife, though the word comes out milder than intended. He’s been listing sideways for a solid half an hour now, shoulder pressed against Rythian’s - and his body seems to give up on staying upright of its own accord all of a sudden, because he’s got his head on Rythian’s shoulder and he’s not sure how it got there. “I’m not… ‘m not that. That bad.”

Rythian frowns, lips thinning beneath the mask, only for his cheeks to pink abruptly when he becomes aware of the hard shape of Strife’s head pressed against his shoulder. The tickle of hair against the thin slice of bare neck between robe and scarf is very distracting, a bright spark of sensation against skin already too-warm and prickling with alcohol. “I…” he tries, voice muffled by the fabric across his mouth. “I, uh…”

Next to him, Strife lets out a small, very quiet snore.

Smiling indulgently, Rythian slips his beer under his scarf and takes another drink, draining the bottle dry and setting it down against the rough surface of the table with a dull thud. “…No,” he says, eventually, words soft and ever so slightly slurred. One, tentative hand comes up to rest on Strife’s head, dark fingers slipping through the light corn-gold of Strife’s short hair. “No, I, uh… suppose you’re not.”


End file.
